


Sing Me To Sleep

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Drabble, M/M, deceptively cute and then sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a kiss. It ends with a kiss. (More fluffy porn with an emotionally traumatic filling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Me To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Guys this one's gonna be depressing. Just a heads up. Read the warnings, etc. I will add, however, that if this gets enough comments I may add a sequel, so don't give up hope?

It starts with a kiss.

 

The kiss itself is nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary for a crossroads demon such as Crowley. It's what follows the kiss, the unsteady alliance between himself and the old hunter that constantly shifts from playful teasing to death threats to something that could almost be a comfortable companionship, that stands out. It's the promise of dreadful, cheap alcohol and some actual intelligent conversation that keeps the king of Hell coming back to Bobby's ramshackle house, makes him order his own demons to stay away from the bitter drunk and his armageddon-inducing brood. And while there are, of course, conflicting interests and a few squabbles that turn into drawn-out battles of spiteful will, over time Crowley finds himself trusting the hunter, missing him when he's away, looking forward to seeing him again. And eventually it becomes apparent that his affections are returned, in the way Bobby's eyes light up when the demon appears, the way there's always an extra chair set out and an extra glass of rotgut, just in case. 

It's not really terribly surprising, then, when after a few months of this- nearly a year, now that he thinks about it-- their usual evening of drinking and casual banter ends in Bobby reaching out and cautiously cupping Crowley's cheek. The king of Hell freezes at the touch, letting the human come to him, and when Bobby leans in for their second kiss, Crowley closes his eyes and welcomes it. 

Twenty minutes of embarrassingly frantic groping and rutting later, they're sprawled out on the hunter's bed, and Bobby is straddling him, grinding them slowly together as he works at the buttons on Crowley's shirt. Crowley is planting lines of heated, sloppy kisses up and down the human's throat, his own hands busily prying Bobby's trousers open. A few fumbling, slick motions and the king of Hell throws his head back, gasping, eyes wide, and Bobby grunts low and startled as he pushes into the demon. 

It has taken them so long to get here, and it is everything Crowley could have hoped-- better, because it's real, it's really happening and it's like nothing he's ever had. He's never felt pleasure this intensely; never been so wholly overwhelmed by a sensation that wasn't the pain of the rack. Bobby moves over him, inside of him, and it's like he has complete control of every nerve ending in Crowley's body, down to his very being. The demon whimpers and clutches at the hunter, pulls him close enough to feel the little hairs on his belly, and Bobby lets himself be drawn down, meets every hitched breath and helpless noise with one of his own. The human is whispering endearments, lips pressed to the curve of Crowley's neck as he tells him how much he's wanted this, how good it is, how perfect and hot and amazing Crowley feels. Crowley whimpers again and Bobby shushes him, tells him it's okay, it's all okay now. 

It lasts for far longer than it should, the demon prolonging every moment for as long as he can, holding back and ramping up sensation until they are both hoarse and shaking from pleasure, until the universe splits and the world shatters around them and inside them and they gasp and cry out almost at the same time, so close that one swallows the other's shout and returns it in the same breath.

They fall back onto the mattress, panting and weak, and Bobby manages to roll them both over on their sides (neither of them is coherent enough to worry about the damp patch they've rolled themselves onto), the human spooned up behind the demon, one arm slung over him securely. Crowley feels rather than sees Bobby shift, feels the man pushing his pillow around like he's settling in for a winter-long hibernation. The human's beard brushes the back of his neck, still-shaky breaths against his ear. The king of Hell has never, in all his centuries, been more content, or happier to simply lay in bed and doze off in someone's arms.

"Bobby," he says, his voice a barely-there rasp, "I love you."

The blade is sharp enough that it pierces right through his left scapula, past his ribs, through a lung, slicing his heart and past the ribs again until the silver tip emerges from his chest amid a slowly-blooming red. He doesn't quite gasp, but a shocked, hurt sound works its way free as the hunter behind him twists the knife once. 

 Bobby holds Crowley carefully, cradles his head in one arm as the angel blade he had stashed under his pillow does its work. He catches the demon's hand as it flails weakly back at him, trying to strike him or pull him closer, it's impossible to say. He catches it and curls his fingers around it, presses it to his own chest and watches Crowley's head fall to the side, wide scarlet eyes finding his as dark blood bubbles up from kiss-bruised lips. He holds Crowley until the smaller man's body stops jerking and trembling.

 

It ends with a kiss.

 

Crowley's throat is convulsing as he tries to form his final words, but Bobby doesn't let him. The hunter bends over him and smothers him with a kiss, covering the last agonized gasp that rattles out of his lungs. When he pulls back, the body in his arms is empty, the red eyes gone blank and dull, scorch marks spreading out from the wound in his chest and from his back, ashes falling onto the mattress. 

The hunter pulls the blade free, wipes it clean, and sets it aside. He dresses, rolls Crowley's corpse up in the sheets and blankets from his bed, carries him carefully outside and sets him on the mound of branches he built in the yard this morning. He lights it, helps the flames grow, watches as the pyre builds and swallows Crowley completely. He stands there for hours, until the fire dies out and the ashes scatter themselves in the wind, until the weak sunlight finds the cooling embers. Then he goes back inside, climbs back onto his now-bare mattress and sobs until his eyes hurt, until his throat goes dry and his chest feels hollow and burnt out.


End file.
